


Come and Get Me

by ughmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ughmycroft/pseuds/ughmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has staked out his neighborhood. He kills those that deserve death and he does it with conviction. Any one who lays claim on his civilians find themselves dead merely days later. The consulting detective is surprised when he finds a rival killer leaving him a clear message, "Come and Get Me." Sherlock finds himself more than interested in the chase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boredom.

**Author's Note:**

> Graphic Depictions of Violence, Gay Sex, Murder, etc will occur. Don't read if that makes you queasy. This is a test chapter, if you're interested in a continuation please leave a comment or kudo.

Sherlock stood above the bodies admiring his own work secretly as Lestrade paced behind him. He couldn’t connect the evidence like Sherlock could, and that meant at any rate Sherlock mused, that he’d likely never realize the evidence Sherlock was feeding him was, in fact, a cleverly devised framing of another criminal. One that had crossed into Sherlock’s domain one too many times and needed to be punished. Sherlock had at least given him life in prison rather than a death at his own hands. He decided this killer was not worth his time and effort, too boring, too straight forward. There was no love or passion to his crimes just vengeance – typical, bland motives.

“The man is Hispanic, probably just moved over from the states, mid 20’s, living in the upper neighborhood. You’ll find him hiding at a pub called ‘The Hole’.” Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. Even the pub the man haunted was boring. Honestly, ‘The Hole’ was no more than a legalized center for two bit whores and homeless drunks, disgusting.

Lestrade sighed heavily, “This is the fourth one this week, people are starting to worry and I’ve no idea why these murders are being committed? The motives seem so weak.”

Sherlock spared him a scathing remark about motives always being weak reasons for murder, “Maybe these killers are simply enjoying the act of killing. That makes them much harder to catch. Also, you said four murders? Obviously, a mistake as there has only been three.”

Of course Sherlock would know as he killed the first for accidentally destroying his experiment at Bart’s’ and the second two attributed to the soon to be convicted Hispanic male.

Lestrade grimaced slightly and Sherlock could feel the hair on his neck rising angrily, how dare Lestrade keep pertinent information from him. If he didn’t like the man and his Intel so much he would have murdered him long ago.

“Well, we found a fourth last night. Gruesome, it was, a homeless man stumbled upon the victim last night during the storm. A female with design etched into her skin - with precision , mind you, and a bullet that killed her instantly, through the heart. Almost no blood anywhere, he was smart, clean, and talented. No witnesses, just one thing that really stood out to us.”

Sherlock ran the information quickly; a new killer was in his neighborhood, not a sociopath, most likely a psychopath, someone completely aware of his life and his choices. If he was close enough to kill her with little to no blood he was personable, chatty, someone woman wanted to go home with after a late night. Interesting.

“Tell me, hurry now!” Sherlock’s voice rose a bit with excitement. Lestrade would simply write it off as his excitement for a new murder mystery but Sherlock was excited for a hunt - someone worth finding and warning about boundaries and his own wrath for trespassers.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, “The heart was removed and dissected, it was left beside the body.” He paused shaking his body suddenly as if he suffered from a chill, “He left a note inside.”

Sherlock was literally vibrating with excitement. A note? The killer was looking for something? Trying to tell him something? He couldn’t wait. “Out with it! What did it say!?”

“It said Come and Get Me.”


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives new information.  
> This is the same evening as the last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy :)  
> Feel free to point out flaws if you found any.  
> I just wanted to remind every one I do not have a beta reader (sighhhhhhhh) so if you see something wrong like I've noticed i put allow instead of allowing don't hesitate to send me msg on here or an ask on tumblr [ughmycroft.tumblr.com]! Just so you know. I usually write these within a couple hours, reread once and then post!

“I hope you don’t mind it’s so late Sherlock.”

Lestrade stood outside his apartment door looking exhausted. Sherlock noted the bags under his eyes, highlighting his lack of sleep, and the defeat coming off of him in waves. He stepped aside allowing Lestrade to enter and beeline for the couch. His shoes were crusted with dried mud and he spotted what appeared to be a blood stain on the bottom of his pants. Stumped at a crime scene, again, weren’t you dear inspector. Lestrade slumped on the couch unable to keep himself from releasing a whimper. Sore – most likely from the recent chases, and lack of good nutrition wouldn’t help the situation rendering him more susceptible to cramps and headaches.

“Is there something you need inspector.” He sat adjacent to Lestrade perching gracefully on the edge of the seat, his fingers laced together as if contemplating a serious question. The other man let out a deep breathe Sherlock had not noticed he was holding.

“I think you’re in danger, Sherlock.” The words rushed out quickly as though he was fighting to speak before his nerves were shot. Sherlock masked his first reaction of warmth towards Lestrade concern for him before quickly accessing why he would say something so dramatic. The gears in his minds whirred to a stop suddenly.

“Ah, you think the killer is coming for me.” Lestrade nodded once. “Whatever brought you to that conclusion inspector?”

The silence sat heavy and Sherlock silently contemplated why he was in danger. Had he slipped in his evidence planting or his execution? Did Lestrade suspect he was a murderer as well, or was he simply concerned for another reason. Lestrade spoke before he could complete his assessment.

“I don’t think that message was for any of the blokes at the office. There’s no motive, links to employees – nothing. There’s only one other person this message could have been geared towards. You, Sherlock. If that’s the case we need to be prepared for the real possibility he already knows who you are and where you might live.”

The words came out fast, dripping with worry and fear. Lestrade's eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and now Sherlock wondered if it was caused not by lack of time for sleep but by his fear for Sherlock. He shoved the notion from his thoughts unable to confirm or deny his suspicions.

“So he realizes there is a detective solving the crimes and he wishes to be caught, or at least caught up with. Ah, the frailty of genius. It needs an audience.” He smirked inwardly. He was proud of Lestrade for putting the evidence together so quickly and even more excited that his ‘nemesis’ appeared to be cool and calculating under pressure. It must have been hard finding someone with no relations to any member of the Yard and placing the evidence in such a way that Lestrade had no other option but to voice his concern. What a clever man playing into their sentiment like that.

Sherlock tore himself from his thoughts at the realization that Lestrade was still waiting for an answer. He shifted slightly forcing his body language to portray genuine graciousness.

“Thank you so much for the warning, Lestrade. I’ll be sure to inform my brother the security needs to be increased. Although I think you should rest easier tonight. It’s obvious his interest is not in my death but in my ability to capture him. He’s thriving for a chase not a bloodbath.”

Lestrade sat up straight, staring at him incredulously. “He’s a killer Sherlock; you can’t just assume he’s bored! He could be incredibly psychotic, vicious, angry – you can barely feed yourself, much less protect yourself!”

Sherlock bit back his sudden indignation. He could handle himself better than half of the city. He was no child. “I said I would handle it Detective Inspector. You should leave now. Go to sleep.”

Lestrade stood warily, “I didn’t mean to offend you Sherlock, I just, I worry. You’re my friend. I don’t want to lose you.”

Sherlock let Lestrade’s gaze catch his, calculating the width of his pupils in the dark lighting. Ah, attraction, obviously, but something else – a feeling of responsibility maybe? He led him to the door opening it quietly, “My dear Inspector I am touched by your concern but it does me no good to worry when I could be actively negating the situation. Let me look through the files again and tomorrow we’ll visit the crime scene again. How does that make you feel?”

Lestrade was shuffling his feet irritably and with the look of a chastised 5 years old. “Fine. I feel fine. For fucks sake Sherlock just be careful.” He pulled Sherlock into a brisk hard hug before heading down the narrow stairs and out into the streets. He watched as he hailed a cab his shoulders visibly less tense. Sherlock raised his violin and began playing.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Greg, stop searching out blunt objects. I need you to answer me.”
> 
> Greg sat up straighter, having the decency to look uncomfortable with his self for thinking of threatening his friend. “Yeah, I can, but I swear to God if you say you’re a killer I will punch you and call you a god damn wanker.”

Greg had come home colorless and immediately began drinking. It was no mystery to John that Greg had found another victim. He watched pained as his friend continued to pace the living room no doubt attempting to think of a sensible motive. John had taken his time readying tea for both of them before sitting down near Greg.

“I’m not trying to interrupt you but I think a good cuppa would help your nerves. Yeah, mate?” John held the rugby embellished coffee cup out to him. Greg had taken it without hesitation. He drank it noisily and with more concentration than John felt was necessary before letting out a satisfied sound and continuing his worn path from the kitchen to the apartment’s door.

“Greg.” He waited until the man took notice of him, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Greg gave him a pained look before shaking his head, “I can’t, remember, it’s confidential.” He groaned haphazardly throwing himself into the nearest arm chair drink in hand. John cringed at the rapid movement. He felt slightly wary the man was going to give himself burns or at least a wet lap. It was the first murder to occur this week but over the months John knew there must have been more simply from seeing the files strewn across their living room table.

John sighed inwardly as they sat in silence for a few moments. He weighed his options with great disdain. He could reveal that he was in London by request of the British Government but he didn’t know if Greg would be able to keep the secret to himself. And he rather liked Greg; he honestly didn’t want to have to kill him if he spilled the beans. He had a much higher clearance level than Greg but one always had to be careful of giving away their identity even to those they trusted. He could leave Greg to stew indefinitely driving himself insane but that seemed unkind.

“Greg, do you remember why I moved back here?” His tone was careful, masked, and still wary of Greg’s black mood.

“Of course, I do. You came back when the army discharged you. Don’t bloody know why though, you’re fit as an ox.” He grunted a bit in jealousy and John briefly remembered his less than perfect score at the shooting range.

“Greg, I need you to keep a secret. Do you understand?” He stared at him with a seriousness that gave away his military training in ways he could never fully understand himself but his change in posture and tone had already set off warning signs in his friend’s mind.

Greg turned in his chair staring at him curiously. He gingerly sat his cup down on the nearby table. John could easily see him spotting out the nearest weapons he could use. It was cute; John snickered silently that Greg believed he had a chance if John Watson had really wanted him dead.

“Greg, stop searching out blunt objects. I need you to answer me.”

His flatmate sat up straighter, having the decency to look uncomfortable with his self for thinking of threatening his friend. “Yeah, I can, but I swear to God if you say you’re the killer I will punch you and call you a god damn wanker.”

John slowly reached into his back pocket pulling out his wallet, actively attempting to sooth Greg’s already on edge nerves. Greg continued to eye him suspiciously as if expecting him to do something terrible. John blamed Greg’s job for his inability to relax even in his own home. He pulled a blank white card with a magnetic strip out of his back pocket. He didn’t feel the need to explain how the text was only readable in certain lights and that the chip inside would set off warning sirens in almost every ministry of defense office.

“Do you recognize this Greg?” He anxiously held it up allowing Greg a better view. He pulled back as Greg stretched his hand out to grab it. “I apologize but no one is allowed to touch this card other than my superiors themselves.”

“John, you piece of shit, you’re not fucking retired are you?” Greg’s demeanor had changed from uncomfortable to a nervous excitement. John breathed a small breathe inwardly of relief.

“Greg, if you tell anyone, I won’t have a choice. You will be dead. Do you understand that?” John was leaned over his chair replacing his wallet his voice cold and hard. Greg swallowed nervously.

“Yeah, yeah, mate. No I get it.” He paused, looking around curiously, “They don’t have you under surveillance do they? You know, isn’t your job a secret?

John rolled his eyes now grinning at Greg’s immediate survey of his apartment, “No they left the house unwatched. I told them I wouldn’t come down if they did. I’ve got a bit of pull now-a-days.”

Greg was standing up now the excitement a bit too much for him to sit quietly. “Why did you suddenly decide tell me this? What’s going on?”

John smiled impishly, “Well, you said you couldn’t talk to me about whatever’s eating you, and now you can. So sit down and let’s talk, alright?”

He nodded slowly sobering at the mention of the murders. “Are you here because of the murders John?”

“No, I’m actually here for a guard job soon. I think something is happening in this town that I’m not completely sure about yet. The higher ups are keeping it extremely quiet. One of bosses is a bit of dick. Seems to know everything about you before you speak and he runs around carrying a fucking umbrella everywhere, it’s annoying to say the least. He always stares at me like he knows something I don’t.” John looked up from his hands that he had been subconsciously worrying. “Anyways he put me in town here. The murders are just a plus.”

Greg rolled his eyes, “A plus? Ugh, they’re so disconnected but I know they have to be something. I just have a gut feeling.”

John murmured in agreement. He never argued with his gut and he’d known Greg long enough now to think he was capable of correctly judging the situation. “You want me to look around?”

Greg stared at him incredulously, “Can you do that?”

“Greg, I think a better question now that you’re looped in is what can’t I do?” He flashed a grin before laughing, “You’re handling this really well. I’m surprised.”

Greg shrugged, “Honestly, I think I might be more relieved than anything. I mean when a bloke shows up ‘discharged’ from the military and yet he can hit targets with almost no inaccuracy you get a bit nervous, but now it just makes me feel safer. Especially with these murders around the town, I dunno, I’m sure I’ll have a panic attack after a few pints tomorrow.”

The conservation dissolved into laughter slowly moving their conversation topics toward womn and work before Greg had been called in for another murder.

“Do you want me to join you? Keep you safe and all?”

“Nah, stay at home, keep it warm for me,” Greg snorted leaving with a typical suggestion about their shared bed and John found himself feeling relaxed for the first time in ages. He found himself getting dressed in an oxford shirt and tie complete with his black slacks before going out on the town.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He moved quickly pinning her to the ground between his legs pinning her hands above her head with only one hand. The other holding the fun towards her face, “What the fuck are those pictures! ARE YOU A GODDAMN PEDAPHILE?” She was whimpering, refusing to answer, when slapped her again with his pistol. “ANSWER ME.”
> 
> [[John's POV from chapter 1-3; don't skip because it covers a lot of information you need to know.  
> Beware: 'metaphorical images of child abuse/sexual assault', murder, gratuitous amounts of blood, cursing, and some sexual content.]]

Tonight he would find a date and take her back home he decided as the cool air hit his face. John Watson was, if nothing else, a ladies man. He felt confident as he walked with his handgun tucked securely in his waist band. He found himself lost in thought as he made his way to the nearest pub.

The first murder seemed almost wasteful. The man had been found outside of Bart’s murdered in such a way that the killer must have painstakingly taken his time to not only murder the victim, but clean every available print before the body was found. The head was bashed in as if it had been dropped from a high place and the hands were removed entirely and soaked in bleach; thoroughly cleaned and sitting near the body. The killer must have known he would be caught if the hands were tested.

Greg would have been livid if he knew John was secretly reading his emails and case files while he was gone but he couldn’t help his curiosity. A real live serial killer – he hadn’t found one worthy of looking into since his time in High School when he’d first stumbled upon Jack the Rippers stories. Secretly he lived for horror, mystery, and thrill filled novels. They were classic and even the monsters had their own motives and reasonings. Those who killed without purpose were disgusting. John killed with purpose. His entire existence was based around killing with skill, and mercilessness. He smiled to himself wondering what the new murder tonight might hold as he slipped into the pub.

He wandered to the bar taking a seat nearest to the bartender. He grinned mischievously at the beautiful red haired lady behind the counter. Her low cut shirt and dangling earrings caught his attention as did her ensnaring smirk.

“What’s your poison Mister?” She leaned over the counter, her creamy brown eyes reflected bits of yellow in the low lighting, and her hair fell in beautiful tendrils around her face. He almost felt his breath catch a little; yes, this is the girl I want to spend my night with.

“Could I just have some Rum and Coke, I’m watching my figure.” He chuckled a bit before giving her an encouraging wink. Her eyes flitted over his body appreciatively before grinning back.

“I’ll get you whatever you want if you stick around for a bit.”

“Now...,” He paused waiting for her to supply a name, she seductively murmured ‘Danny’.

“Ah, thank you. Now, Danny, I’ve got virtue and I don’t go home with every bloke I meet you know.”

She sat his over filled cup in front of him, licking her lips, “Good thing I’m not a bloke then soldier boy.” He nodded, throwing back his drink surprised that she had noticed his dog tags underneath his shirt. He spent the next hour watching customers come and go, flirting, dancing to the horrible music and tasting each other’s skin in dark corners. He pulled his attention away from the patrons choosing instead to watch as Danny excused herself from behind the counter. She sauntered up to him, no doubt a few drinks in her system, “Take me home Soldier?”

He smirked letting her hang on him, “Do you want to know my name Danny?”

She shook her head dramatically, “No, never! That takes out all the fun of casual sex.” He pulled her closer enjoying the way his night was turning. He hadn’t had sex in months not after his last shipment and the horrible break up between him and his long term girlfriend Mary. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, as they walked back towards his neighborhood. Don’t think about that. She dumped you. Not the other way around. Go out and have some fun god dammit.

It wasn’t long before they were in a dark alley taking short cuts as they both progressively sobered up and found themselves more and more aroused. She slammed him against the nearby fence before biting his neck with moan, he let out a pained groaned which only encouraged her. She dropped down to his belt buckle dragging her teeth across the denim fabric laying across his swollen member. He looked behind her kneeling figure eyeing her purse which had been knocked aside; polaroid images lay spilled on the ground.

His breath caught as he made out the images of children, naked and inappropriately tied down. Oh my god, she’s a pedophile. She’s a fucking child rapist. He deftly took out his gun, during her preoccupation with his pants, bringing the base down on the back of her head. She cried out in surprise, stumbling onto her back, lying on top of the scattered pictures. She was afraid, her eyes were wide, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

He moved quickly pinning her to the ground between his legs, pinning her hands above her head with almost no effort. The other hand holding the gun towards her face, “What the fuck are those pictures! ARE YOU A GODDAMN PEDAPHILE?” She was whimpering, refusing to answer, when slapped her again with his pistol. “ANSWER ME.”

“I-I, it was a mistake. I’ll never do it again.” She was beginning to suffer from wracked sobs of fear and John did want any sensible, moral, rage incensed man would do – he broke her neck. Then he shot her through the heart.

“You’re right,” he whispered with a long drawn out breathe, “You won’t ever do it again.”

His anger gave him a cold precision as he looked around for witnesses, no one, good; cutting out her heart, using the medical scalpels he always kept in his jacket pocket he nearly laughed at himself. He never carried them but he was always so worried that he’d find himself in need of them if he didn’t bring them; always ready for a car wreck or accident. Though, he chuckled as he removed her heart, he usually used his scalpels to save lives not end them. He reasoned with himself darkly, she deserves this; she was mutilating those children, destroying their innocence.

He heard the running footsteps before he ever saw them. Choosing to stay still and hide in the shadows he was surprised to see a Hispanic man running towards him. He rose up ready to kill him as well if he had too. He was surprised at the man’s next words.

“Oh, god, he’s going to kill you for that. This is his territory.”

John stared at the man momentarily stunned at the casualness of his remark, “Who?” He questioned with a cold seriousness that made the other man’s skin crawl.

“They call him The Judge.”

John nearly laughed in the man’s face. He was clearly delusional. “Are you fucking kidding me mate? Get the fuck out of here before I gut you too.”

The man, to his credit, barely even flinched, “Such a death would be welcomed. The judge is after me, for killing in his territory. You should run too.” He didn’t wait for John’s answer sprinting into the streets around the corner. John grinned his interest peaked. Surely this Judge wasn’t real, just another idiot killer with no purpose. Maybe I’ll show him what killing with a purpose truly is. He opened Danny’s purse pulling out a small piece of paper before scrawling in a script that was much different than his own, “Come and get me.” His last and final message to the Judge was the design etched into the young pervert’s forehead, an image of the Judge’s balance scale.

He looked over himself irritated with the blood he found on himself. He needed to get home before Greg came back from the case, which hopefully would take a bit longer. He cleaned up the crime scene with care before running home; staying in the shadows and out of the camera’s views before finally rushing into his apartment.

It had never felt so relaxing to be alone as he showered, disposing of his bloodied laundry- and his favorite fucking shirt- only after bleaching it several times in a burning bin nearby. He thanked his stars that the cool weather had the homeless seeking warmth.

He felt clearer than he had the last few nights. The feeling he had experienced as the last of that sinners life slipped from her was empowering, and in a way purifying. This was the reason he had become a soldier, to fight for the greater good. Now, with his new sense of duty and his already excellent position in Britain’s Special Reconnaissance no one was going to be able to bring him down. And he reasoned, who would want to? He was going to purge London of its evil’s, keep the streets clean of treacherous leeches.

The front door could be heard shutting as he finished his shower throwing on a pair of a black boxers before walking into the living room the water still trickling down his back. Greg looked awful, a terrible grimace on his face.

“I think I’m going to have to call in my special detective for these cases. They’re just too disconnected for me to make any connections.”

John looked at him quizzically, “You think some special detective can make jumps you can’t? Sounds a bit like wishful thinking to me, mate.”

Greg gave him a weak smile that did not reach his eyes, “You haven’t met Sherlock mate. He’s a genius. I’ve seen him find murder’s with only a photo of a crime scene.”

He shrugged, “Sure, whatever you say Greg.” Sitting down in the armchair beside his friend he mulled over the nights events, would this genius be able to deduce his own murder? Would it matter?

He jumped when Greg’s cell phone rang again shattering the comfortable silence between them. Greg’s muttering brought him back from his thoughts, “Are you fucking kidding me Dimmock? What do you mean they found another body? Where?”

A brief pause caused John stomach to flip momentarily. “You can’t be serious, that’s not far from here! Fine, I’ll meet you there.” John eyed Greg as he wearily dragged himself up off of the armchair with little to no spark in his eyes. Greg looked towards john's inquisitive face.

“They found another body John, a woman. Some homeless man just found the body.”

John swallowed keeping his emotions in check, refusing to let himself feel anything but sympathy for his friend, “They’ll catch the killer Greg, of course they will.”

Greg merely opened the front door readying himself for the crime scene, “I’m glad you’re here John, it makes me feel safer.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock steepled his fingers, giving off the impression he was thinking of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. "If I remember correctly, and I always do,", he could hear Sally guffaw in the background, he nearly snarled at her, "The Judge's last crime scene left no evidence of his disappearance or his possible return. Any thing we say is merely conjecture. I believe that we must prepare for the inevitable - that the Judge will return."

Sherlock studied the body, his mind traveling quickly across her corpse. His synapses were firing faster than ever before, making connections that he wasn't even sure he could trust due to his own excitement. The emblem carved into the victim's head was more than enough to send sparks of desire through his body. This girl felt like a present from a suitor rather than another murderer. He stood completely still until he was sure the information he was pulling from her body was logic and not his own wishful thinking.

"Alright we're looking for a doctor, or at the very least someone with extremely steady hands, precise enough to to a surgery. These marks literally look as though they've been opened by a surgical kit. I would go so far as to say a professional kit. One that a Doctor would carry around for emergencies or in their schooling kits." He took a breath taking in Greg's anxious behavior and Sally Donavan's ghastly green face. She looked as though she would hurl if she came any closer to the crime scene. He mused that was probably the reaction for normal folk, those that hadn't even seen a bloodied corpse up close. Even if he hadn't been Greg's friend when they were younger he would have been able to tell that tragedy had stuck him before from his closed off expression. He remembered Greg's military friends being blown away, unable to save them. He stopped his train of thought forcing himself back to his prerogative. "I think the killer intended this to be a gift of some kind, a purification if you will. You can tell from the photographs she was pedophile of young children. The symbol on her forehead is the mark of the Judge. We haven't seen much since his killing of rapist's back in '07. I'm not sure maybe this killer is calling out to him? Trying to purge London once more?"

Greg stood a few feet away leaning against the nearby wall for support. His head was angled down and his eyes were shut as if he was tired. His voice was worn, "Sherlock, do you really think the Judge will come back? It's been nearly six years since he last attacked anyone. I thought he had died, or at least moved away."

Sherlock steepled his fingers, giving off the impression he was thinking of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. "If I remember correctly, and I always do,", he could hear Sally guffaw in the background, he nearly snarled at her, "The Judge's last crime scene left no evidence of his disappearance or his possible return. Anything we say is merely conjecture. I believe that we must prepare for the inevitable - that the Judge will return."

Anderson stared at him from across the room, his fingers frozen near her cut out heart. Sherlock knew that he had been convicted in his teenage years, and while it would give him so much satisfaction to just kill him, he knew that he would be a likely suspect. His identity as the Judge was too much for him to give up over a man labeled as a pedaphile who had only peed in a playground. Although as Anderson always said, 'There were no kids, and I was drunk!'

Greg coughed, his throat sore from the chilly weather. "Fine, we will be the search tomorrow. We'll start questioning all the local doctors in the area of London and if we can't find any leads we'll just have to look for more evidence." He paused making sure that everyone had heard him, his eyes stopped for a few seconds on Sherlock, who merely stared back, "Alright everyone, let's go home."

Greg crossed over to where Sherlock was standing, putting a hand on his shoulder, "I know you want to catch the Judge and this new Doctor but please don't go out by yourself."

Sherlock gave him a tight lipped smiled hoping it was enough to quell his suspicions, "Of course Lestrade."

\----

Sherlock fingered the small match box he had nicked from the victim's purse. The pub names was emblazoned on the package and he trusted his senses. Her outfit told him more about where she worked than the other detectives would have noticed. He took in the low cut shirt, the comfortable shoes, and the darkening rings that meant no sleep around her eyes. She was either a bartender or a frequent pub goer. He was betting on the former rather than the latter. He was betting the Doctor, as he had taken to calling him in his head, had been out for a drink when he noticed this sinner from across the room. Sherlock couldn't help but feel pleased. He enjoyed the thrill he got every time a new murderer tried to replace him. He was the Judge, and no one would ever senselessly kill in his neighborhood. To kill without purpose or reason was to waste away that person's dignity. The sinners last few moments should be spent renouncing their evil deeds. If their was no evil to renounce why would you murder them? He cursed those who killed the innocent.

He took in the pubs large steel doors and the bouncer outside. "Is this a private bar?"

The bouncer barely looked at him, "Are you on the list?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "It's a god damn bar, what do you mean list?"

The bouncer turned around facing his oversized, hulking figure towards him. "If you haven't heard we lost a bartender last night you sack of shit. Some guy took her out and cut her into little pieces." He stepped closer to Sherlock rising up to his full height, "So, don't make me ask again, are you on the fuckin' list mate?"

Sherlock stepped back tucking his coat tighter around him, meeting the man's glare, "No I'm not on your list. I'm the special detective assigned to the case and I'm looking for clues leading up to her murder. Do you know who she left with?"

The bouncer seemed to lighten up immediately, but did not back away. "I'll tell you what I know, but you can't enter the bar unless the boss puts you on the list." His fists were curled tight, and his shoulder hunched forward. Sherlock sat for a moment watching his actions, "Did you know her?"

He nodded zipping up his leather coat to block the harsh wind kicking up around him, "I did. She'd worked here for a long time."

"Did you see her leave with a man? A doctor maybe?" Sherlock didn't want to give away too many clues in case this man was working with the Doctor but he needed as much information as he could get before the detective inspector came looking for answers.

"A doctor? Nah, a soldier, yeah." He paused, his face screwed up in concentration, "I dunno, the last person I saw her with was a nice, clean shaven soldier, dirty blonde, stiff shoulder. I couldn't tell if it was an old injury or just arthritis. I only noticed because I saw them going out together when she got off work. She was hanging on him and he kept messing with his shoulder like it hurt him."

Sherlock stepped away from the bouncer, his feet leading him away, "You've been most helpful. Thank you."

He didn't look back at the man, preferring to leave him to his own thoughts and devices. He mused over this new information. Either the Doctor was a military man, or a soldier had the girl before The Doctor took her off of his hands. His brain kept running as he walked up to Greg's house. It was late, but not late enough that he would be asleep yet. A quick knock on the door was all he got in before the door was opening, Greg stood half awake in his boxers, "Sherlock, what's the matter?" His words came out slightly slurred but Sherlock knew what he meant. "I'm sorry I didn't realize you'd be asleep. I spoke with the bouncer." Greg was shaking his head now trying to wake up, "And?"

Sherlock grinned, "She left with a military man. Either he's a doctor, or The Doctor stole her from him."

Greg was smirking now, "What happened to waiting till tomorrow Sherlock?"

He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally, "They always trample the evidence. See you tomorrow."

Greg grabbed his shoulder as he turned to leave, "Hey, I'm bringing my new roommate to the meeting tomorrow. He's good with a gun, maybe he can see something we missed."

Sherlock nearly grimaced at him, annoyed, "I don't miss anything Lestrade. Good night."


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have to take someone Sherlock; I'm not letting you go alone.” Greg’s voice held such finality that John knew Sherlock would lose the argument if he tried to press the matter. To his surprise, and John had come in such a short time to expect Sherlock to argue, the tall gentleman turned around staring at John with a smirk on his features, “Him, I want him to accompany me.”

The room was sweltering when John walked in, a few minutes later than most of Scotland Yard. He glanced somewhat anxiously at Greg who entered beside him, unperturbed by the stares. It gave him the vote of confidence he needed to feel at home in such a private meeting. He could already pick up who a few people were based on their looks and attitudes. It wasn't hard to tell who Sally was, her emails often written with irritation, a sharp tongue, and a confidence that no other officer seemed to exude. It helped that she was complaining to someone else when they walked in. It was hard to miss her complaints, as they never seemed to stop. Greg had of course informed him that Sally Donovan was one of, if not the, best officer on Scotland Yard. He noted her black skirt, hemmed above her knees, the stockings, a light gray, went above her knees, pulling his attention to her expensive black heels. He found himself curious as to why she was wearing heels to an informal meeting, but tried his best to ignore such an odd behavior. Ladies were not his specialty anyways. Her top was tucked into her pencil skirt, a white blouse pulled taunt against her chest, and a thick petticoat pulled tightly around her, the top open slightly. John let himself appreciate her collarbones and set jaw before looking on to the next person, whom she was currently harassing.

A small, thin man with the beginning of a beard starting to come out of long face was standing in front of her. He was submissive to Sally but smarted back when she occasionally trampled his pride. He was wearing a simple outfit, dress shoes, black pants, an off-color white button up, and loosely done tie, with which Sally was currently busying herself with. He guessed the man was Anderson, another one of Greg's team, the head of the forensic team he had heard. From the rumors Greg talked about Sally was having an affair with Anderson while his wife was gone on her business trips. He wondered, looking once more, whether their formal outfits meant they had come together, or at least would be together afterwards. He stopped looking around once Greg took a seat near the front of the room, offering John the opportunity to sift through the various finger foods that were set around the office area.

"Alright, as you know, we have four murders, two by Robert Ortiz, taken away yesterday, one by the mysterious new killer we are currently referring to as the Doctor, and one unaccounted for, but is currently being looked at again in case that particular murder could be attributed to the Judge." He paused, letting the collective intake of air be heard. It seemed most of the room had been holding their breath while he talked, awaiting the terrible news. John was not one of them, taking another large bite out of the donut he'd currently nicked. John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand still staring out into the crowd not focusing on any one person specifically. What was the story of the Judge, why was he so frightening? The cops were afraid, the murderers were afraid, was he the only person not taken over by fear of this murderer?

"I know, its god awful news, and I hope we're wrong, but we need to be prepared. We lost nearly 23 citizens the last time this killer rose." Greg's voice sounded strained to John and that alone interested him. His friend had nerves of steel, much like himself; perhaps he shouldn't underestimate such a foe.

"Wrong!"

John nearly jumped at the clear voice that rang out from the shadows of the room, a tall, pale man with unruly black hair, and sharp cheekbones stepped out, his black coat pulled tightly around him as if to guard against those around him. He could hear Anderson and Sally huff indignantly near him, obviously underwhelmed with his dramatic performance. Sally spoke before Greg could react.

"Wrong about what, freak? That's the number, we all know it. We all worked on that case!" She was barely containing her spiteful tongue, a wary hand placed upon her semi-fisted hand by Anderson, who stood beside her, looking uncomfortable.

The freak, John had no other name to call him, merely waved off her statements with an elegant hand, before turning back to Greg. His clear blue eyes felt like two pools of ice that John simply wanted to lie down and die in. They were surrounded by thick, luscious black lashes, and his chiseled cheekbones gave John the feeling that if those eyes were to set upon him he would have felt as though the Afghanistan desert was once again crushing him. His lips were full and plump and John reminded himself that he wasn't currently interested in men and shouldn't start fantasizing about strangers lips wrapped around his cock, so tight and full he would find himself worried if the man was breathing. He shook his head clear of the image, aware of slight hard-on he now sported. The man was speaking.

"If you could be arsed to pay attention for one second Donovan, you would realize that technically none of those murders were truly ever closed cases but rather cold cases that we could find nothing to link them to." He took a breath, calming his frustrated voice; John felt he seemed somewhat defensive of the Judges' work. "For all Scotland Yard knows he could have murdered NO ONE, and simply been used as a blanket for all the cases YOU couldn't solve!"

Greg stepped between Sally and the Freak, his hands put up as if he feared the two would attempt a physical match of wits. John found himself wondering idly who would win. "Sherlock, stop. I understand your irritation at the wording but instead of giving us another scathing review why not tell us the details you've worked out and we'll brainstorm from there. Yeah?"

John rolled the name Sherlock around his mind for a moment wondering where a name like that would come from. Maybe it's a family name, he mused, or something else, simply made up on a whim to keep his parents amused. He could tell from the name that this was the mysterious genius that Greg was so smitten with intellectually. John found himself wanting to get closer, to analyze, to dissect, to test this man, to see what his mind worked like when under fire.

The taller gentlemen seemed to have noticed him, his hawk eyes scrutinizing his very essence. He watched as Sherlock took in his appearance, his clothing, his blue eyes, his skilled hands, the way he reacted as if he was staring down a bomb that was set to detonate. John held his breath wondering if the so called genius would be able to read his guilt just from staring at him, but Sherlock simply turned his gaze away locking once again with Greg.

“Fine.” He seemed to spit the words as a venomous snake would towards its prey. “I know that the Doctor is responsible for one murder,” John fought the impulse to jerk his attention towards Sherlock, “He’s military, if we take what the bouncer said to be true, and obviously from the precision and aptitude of the kill, he was or is a Doctor of some kind. It’s unclear whether he’s practiced or simply a talented beginner. I assumed him to of average height, precise with a weapon, and a psychopath of sorts. He knows he is killing, he is extremely aware of his actions, and yet, he cannot stop himself from purging London of its vermin.” John can feel his heart beating out of his chest, something he hoped wasn’t written across his face for the mad scientist to see. Sherlock’s description made him feel proud, giddy even, that someone has deduced his master plan, and the way that Sherlock has pronounced his plans gave his utter admiration away. It made John’s legs shiver with anticipation if Sherlock ever deduced he was the murderer. He wasn’t even sure Sherlock would report him.

The Scotland employees were staring at Sherlock now, some with admiration, others with disgust at his apparent enthusiasm for the case, and others still with a look of nausea in their features. John looked at Sherlock with utter indifference fearing any other expression would give his inner thoughts away to the nearly psychic man. He can’t make himself feign admiration, or even disgust, perhaps because his body was feeling something more attune to shock after realizing that someone could understand him, and seemed to approve of his motivations. He couldn’t remember a time when he felt like someone understood his vision of the world, or his constant desire to cause destruction to the vermin and perverts of London, but here, this genius detective had deconstructed his entire personality from a single shred of evidence and yet John felt no closer to his original agenda, the Judge, or purification.

“What do you suggest we do Sherlock? We had nearly no luck in our last search, and I DO NOT want to declare the city in danger again. Last time we couldn’t control the panic that spread.” Greg was running his hands through his hair now, anxiety and defeat mixing across his worn face. John felt bad for his friend; it was painfully obvious to him that his actions that had given Greg such a hard few days. He started towards Greg to give him a friendly pat of assurance, but Sherlock spoke again, this time softer as if lulling the detective inspector into his web.

“Why don’t I go undercover, you know, search out the leads, and keep the public out of the big picture?” He was vibrating with excitement, his hands rubbing against his black iPhone in such a way that John worried he would rub the color off revealing the metallic metal underneath. Greg was staring at him, considering the offer, John felt the tension in the air rise as the rest of the room fell silent, waiting for the decision.

“You have to take someone Sherlock; I’m not letting you go alone.” Greg’s voice held such finality that John knew Sherlock would lose the argument if he tried to press the matter. To his surprise, and John had come in such a short time to expect Sherlock to argue, the tall gentleman turned around staring at John with a smirk on his features, “Him, I want him to accompany me.”

Greg rolled his eyes exasperatedly, “Sherlock, no, he isn’t even on the force. Pick someone else.” John was looking into Sherlock’s eyes, his own eyebrow rising slightly in a question that hadn’t formed completely yet.

“Must we play this game, Lestrade? He’s military, high clearance, wearing at least three weapons on his person at this time. Clearly he’s more fit and ready to go undercover than anyone here in this office. His dress says he’s already undercover, pretending to be discharged, when in fact he’s clearly-”, John cut him, his voice even, but the dark tone underneath was charged with enough military bark to steal Sherlock’s air from his lungs.

“Your genius is quite amazing, a right gift from God, but if you don’t quit talking, I will gun you down where you stand, civilian.” John hoped the message was clear, and further details of his life would be spared. He liked this new man but he felt in his gut the detective needed to understand he would not submit to his will, if anything Sherlock would submit to his. The room was still. The Yarder’s staring at him, some with their mouths completely held open. Sherlock was grinning, his teeth bared as if John was the most delicious feast he’d ever laid his eyes on.

“Just the two of us against the two most dangerous criminals in the world, is it not the most exciting thing that could happen to us?” He was stalking closer to John, taking in his light jumper, pulled over a tight black shirt, a leather jacket with built in bulletproof material zipped up over the ensemble. Sherlock raked his eyes over his dark blue jeans before landing on his shoes with a smirk that told John he was most likely deducing something from them.

“Alright, when do we leave, Mr. …,” He trailed off realizing he was unsure of his companions name. Sherlock looked up at him, taking his eyes away from his clothing, “Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, but please, call me Sherlock.” The grin he gave John was dazzling and suddenly he wondered how Sally could ever be irritated with such a beautiful specimen. Speaking of Sally he could hear her muttering under her breath but it didn’t bother him. He could always kill her if she annoyed him too much. As Sherlock had said this department was extremely inept in catching killers. He suspected with the amount of enthusiasm coursing through Sherlock’s veins, he was staring at a killer in the making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very interested in hearing your thoughts about this work. If you have any suggestions or comments on what has been written so far I'd love to hear it. I'd also love to hear how you want this to progress and how soon/or late you want Sherlock and John to realize that their current partner is a serial killer. ;) baelfire.com!


	7. Chapter 7

John found himself standing outside the umbrella mans office for the second time in as many months. It made his skin itch but it was his job to defend and serve, and this man, he'd never been given any type of title to go along with his image, seemed to know things that absolutely no mere mortal should know. The first time John had met him he took a quick look at him before simply saying he had no need of MI6 officers tailing him. John, of course, taken back and slightly confused, stood his ground firmly reminding the gentleman that regardless of his feelings he had his own orders to follow. He had simply fiddled with the tip of his umbrella before swinging it over his shoulder and acquiescing to his company. It hadn't lasted very long, another agent coming to take his place shortly after - John was filling in for an injured agent - they hadn't spoke again during their stay together. It left John with a bad taste in his mouth and an extreme displeasure for jobs involving the gentleman who refused to let himself be given a name.

He kept his military stance, stationed outside the office, waiting for a high level meeting to end so that he may enter, and attempted not to glance at the beautiful woman standing in front of him. She was constantly staring at her phone and sending messages. Briefly he wondered who she could be talking to, he rarely sent a text a day, much less a few per minute. He mentally shrugged reminding herself she was most likely swapping information about government plans. She was the umbrella man's assistant, and that meant she was nearly as high in clearance as he was. If not the same level. He chided himself for not knowing more about military clearance versus government clearance. She finally tsked in his direction gaining his wandering attention before ushering him inside, never once looking or speaking to him directly.

"Sir, John Watson, MI 6 has arrived."

John stepped inside the office, the impeccable umbrella man staring up at him, a pleasant mask of disinterest covering his features. He waved Anthea on as she closed the door behind her before gesturing towards the empty seat in front of him, "Please sit Dr. Watson." He did as he was told never once allowing his gaze to leave the older mans. John tried his best not to move, standing as still as he could in the plump, overstuffed chair.

"Tea, Dr. Watson?" The man was almost smiling, his teeth not quite bared but John could feel the threat behind his sweet words. Not here for a Job, now am I? No, I'm here for a warning. "Ah, well that's fine as well. I wanted to speak to you, about your work on the side with the Scotland Yard."

John did his best to remain calm but knew his eyes had narrowed in suspicion, "Are you spying on me, sir?" To his credit the other man did not react to the venom in his voice, "On the contrary, Dr. Watson, I'm threatening you." Umbrella man's smile widened into what appeared to John to be the smile of a shark.

"Is there any particular reason? I've yet to do anything." John held his gaze firm refusing to be intimidated.

"I have an invested interest in this particular case, you might say I have a personal hand in it. I want, "He paused leaning forward, "no, I need intelligence on the particular operation." John relaxed his grip on the chairs armrest slightly before heaving a sigh.

"Go on."

"I am willing to pay you any amount you wish to spy on and report your findings on the curious detective Sherlock Holmes." He reached into his pocket slowly pulling out a leather check book. John felt sure that the leather on this mans wallet was more expensive than his entire outfit. He briefly mulled over the idea before his infatuation with the good Detective overwhelmed his greed. The man understood him, was a possible ally in his murders, no amount of money could replace that possibility. Even worse intelligence on Sherlock could lead to intelligence being found on himself.

"No, thank you, sir.

The other man looked stunned, shell shocked John mused, before removing the expression entirely, "I am being serious, any amount of money you want, and I will give it to you in cash."

John stared at him; what had Sherlock done to warrant such extreme measures in his surveillance, "My final answer is no, good day, sir." He stood walking towards the door, silence falling between the two.

He was nearly out of the office before the Umbrella softly called out after him, "Your file says that the last person you trusted died in Afghanistan. Have you found another comrade to go to war with you, Dr. Watson?"

John paused in the doorway, turning him head back towards the man, "I believe this meeting is over, sir."

\---

The coffee shop was nearly deserted when John arrived at a quarter till six. The sole barista sat behind the counter, his cell phone out, waiting for the last few customers to file out in order for him to close up shop. John looked at the wall clock for what felt like the tenth time since he had sat down. The few minutes that had passed since he sat down were dragging out as the stress of his day caught up with him. His exhilaration from his earlier meeting with the umbrella man had left him tired and nervous, not a good combination for his first night sleuthing with his new companion.

Sherlock, bless him thought John, showed up a with a light blush across his cheeks, most likely from the cold weather outside. His long black jacket was drawn up around his face, a light blue scarf tucked under it. John noted his dark blue jeans and what appeared to be black work boots. Briefly he wondered where one would find such strange clothing in the heart of London.

"A friend made them." Sherlock stuck out his hand towards John offering a handshake before settling in across from John, signalling the waiter for a black coffee to go. John raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question. "I read people quite easily, your curiosity was written across your face. You already think of me in a good light, therefore you've stopped masking your emotions. Quite strange as you deny yourself friends most of the time."

John took a large breathe, the umbrella's words coming to his mind, "Amazing, surprisingly you're not the first to notice my good nature towards you." Sherlock accepted a black coffee from the waiter, staring at him with a slight grin. "Ah, interesting. I see you get out more than I first presumed." John eyed him, taking in the way his long fingers gripped the venti cup, the soft steam swirling in front of his eyes.

"I really don't. It was...a business meeting. I, uh, well I can't talk about." He bit his lip, there was no way he could tell Sherlock that the meeting was about him, it was not only classified but it might scare Sherlock away. John had no intention of making his only bearable acquaintance uncomfortable.

"Sure. The way your pupils are dilated and their brief twitch to the left tells me you're lying, or at the very least not telling the truth, but I won't push the subject. I can tell you're an honest man, so it mustn't be something I need to know." Sherlocks cheeks were still painted red but his blue eyes cut through John's soul. He felt completely open, and it gave him chills.

"How- How on earth do you do that trick?" John found himself completely interested, the act of telling him all this new information both scared and interested. Was he such an open book, or had the man researched him before this meeting?

"Oh, boring. I do not do 'tricks', I deduce. I can tell things just by being aware. Such as reading your bodies vital's, reactions, what you're wearing, if your clothing has certain marks. For example, I know you've been to the Diogenes Club today, I can tell by the dirt attached to your shoe, it's only found in certain places. The Diogenes Club had the specific type imported from another country." He looked out the window, as if waiting for a blow, or an indignant response. John merely grinned, a bit of teeth biting on his lip to keep his smile in check. It was threatening to take over his whole face. He coughed attracted Sherlock's attention again.

"That was great. I'm really floored by your brilliance Sherlock. Why on earth do you work for the Yard? MI 6 could really use a mind like yours."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but smirked slightly at the compliment, "They already have my eldest brother, I think one Holmes son is enough for the government."

John tapped his fingers thoughtfully along the booth's edge, "Huh. Is he like you? A Deducer?"

Sherlock shrugged, sipping the last of his coffee before slipping out of the booth and to the nearest trash can, "If anything, he's much better than even I." As John followed him outside of the cafe he grinned, a compliment from Sherlock Holmes was hard to come by, he already felt the nation was safer.

 


End file.
